Chapter Forty-One

Rather than returning to my room, I headed out to the gardens again, a place where I could be alone and try to untangle the events of the last few hours in my own mind.

It was … rather a lot, I thought as I wandered aimlessly through the crowds. There had been several attempted murders; we had reunited Oliver with his long-lost sister and apprehended two dangerous criminals. Yet the thing that had me utterly off-balance was Oliver's declaration.

He was in love with me.

"He is in love with me," I said it aloud, as if testing it out. The words were like honey, sweet and golden on my tongue. "Oliver Lockhart is in love with me."

As I let the idea sink in more fully, I began to appreciate what it meant. Oliver didn't care where I was from. Or maybe that was wrong; Oliver did care, and he admired it. Oliver wouldn't break my heart or leave me for a better prospect. He said that he loved me, and I knew that it must be true. Not only because Oliver wouldn't lie, but because he was so careful about admitting that he cared for other people. That was no surprise really, given his past, but it meant that his grudging declaration felt, to me, as demonstratively romantic as a lengthy sonnet. More so, actually, because I would have no patience at all for a man spouting poetry at me. Daisy would be disappointed.

Daisy. I came to a halt in front of the fountain.

Just like that, the dreamy smile was wiped from my face. What about my family? I could hardly leave them behind to fend for themselves. And Oliver Lockhart of Lockhart Hall wasn't going to want to take over a flower shop on Oxford Street. Our lives were utterly incompatible.

Then, of course, there was the Aviary to consider. They had invested six months in training me. I cared about them, and I believed in them. I could hardly leave them. I didn't want to leave them.

Dropping on to a bench, I tipped my head back and closed my eyes. The sun was warm on my face and left shadows dancing behind my eyelids.

Someone sat down beside me. "I had a feeling I would find you here," Mrs Finch said.

Opening my eyes, I found her observing me with steady amusement. I was glad somebody was having a nice time.

"I wanted to check on you," she said, "now that everything has been tidied up and our adventure is at an end."

"Thank you, but I am fine," I said, while she spread her skirts out neatly.

Mrs Finch fixed me with a piercing look. "I can only assume that Oliver Lockhart has just declared his intentions."

I started. "Have you really inherited gifts of clairvoyance?" I asked. "How do you know these things?"

Mrs Finch laughed, the picture of relaxation. "In this case, I'm afraid one doesn't need to be clairvoyant to see what is happening between the two of you. It is – I hate to inform you – patently obvious to everyone with eyes. The boy adores you." Her eyes narrowed. "And you adore him too. So I wonder why you look as though you are about to attend a funeral."

I fidgeted in my seat. "I have obligations," I said finally. "To my family. And" – I lifted my eyes to hers – "to you."

"I see. Well, I cannot speak for your obligations to your family, but as far as your commitment to the Aviary, I do not see why that must be any great impediment."

"You don't?" I managed.

Mrs Finch considered me. "No, I do not. First of all, none of the women who work for us are obliged to do so. They choose it."

"But I want to do it," I said desperately. "I want to choose it – that is precisely part of the problem."

Mrs Finch only smiled. "Well, in that case, the Aviary has agents all over the country – soon to be all over the world if Sylla has anything to say on the matter. Unfortunately, women in need are not neatly confined to the borders of London, however much we may be tempted to view the metropolis as the centre of the world."

"No," I said slowly. "I suppose not. It sounds silly, but I have only recently really thought about just how limited my experience of the world has been. The Aviary has opened my eyes to a lot of things."

"I find that to be a great compliment, Marigold," Mrs Finch said with a pleased smile. We lapsed into a thoughtful silence. On the pool in front of us a handful of little red toy sailing boats drifted by.

"I had an interesting conversation with Oliver the other day," she said, breaking the quiet. "About Lockhart Hall."

"Oh?"

Her tone was innocent, but I knew her better now, knew what her face looked like when she was scheming. And she definitely had a scheming face now.

"Yes," she continued, smooth as glass. "It seems that in recent weeks he has been giving a good deal of thought to the legacy he has been left with. He believes that there is a chance Lockhart Hall could be – how did he put it? – something better than the story of its past."

I started at the repetition of my own words. Mrs Finch pressed her lips together as if to hide a smile.

"He wants to turn Lockhart Hall into a retreat," she carried on. "For women who need … sanctuary."

I stilled. "A retreat?"

Mrs Finch nodded. "We have several already, though nothing like the size of Lockhart Hall. It is perfect, of course – so out of the way and secluded. And the place is literally a fortress, so it should inspire a feeling of safety in those who need it most. I have to say I am delighted with the plan."

So was I. It was perfect. It was the perfect way to use Lockhart Hall; it was the perfect way for Oliver to honour his mother. It was the perfect way to bring that house back to life. It could be warm, I knew. I had seen it. It could be warm and safe and welcoming.

"Of course, we would probably need someone there who worked for the Aviary to run things. One could hardly leave taking care of people up to Oliver." Mrs Finch smiled fondly. "Anyway…" She got to her feet and dusted herself off. "Just something to think about."

And on that earth-shattering note, she left me alone.

It was a couple of hours later that there was a knock on my door. I knew it would be Oliver, and I hadn't decided if I was prepared for that or not. I had sat in the park for a long time, turning over Mrs Finch's words. Funny, I thought, how all this had started in a different park six months ago, how wildly different my life was now.

When he strode into the room, he was more subdued than usual. I felt that same nervous energy coming off him, and for some strange reason that helped me to feel calmer. Perhaps it was because I realized I wasn't in this alone.

He looked much better than the last time I saw him. His colour had returned and, though he looked tired, he had also clearly taken the opportunity to tidy himself up. His hair was brushed back neatly, his face cleanly shaven, his suit impeccable. I felt touched by it, even as I knew that I liked him best when he was rumpled and untidy.

He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. "Bloom," he began gruffly.

And that was all it took. Every objection flew out of my head as I saw him standing there, looking at me with his heart in his eyes.

I crashed into him, pulling his head down until my lips met his. He made a small noise of surprise, and then his arm looped round my waist, pulling me tightly against him. He kissed me as though I was something rare and lovely. He kissed me as though he loved me and wanted me, and would never, never get enough.

And I kissed him back, poured my own feelings into every soft touch of my mouth, into the way I gripped the lapels of his jacket, pressing into him almost desperately.

It was a warm, breathless dream of a kiss, and when we finally broke apart, I looked up at him. Dazzled.

Fortunately, he looked equally affected. His hand moved, almost nervously to his tie. I was pleased to see that his hair was thoroughly rumpled, and that his well-kissed lips and lust-blown pupils all contributed to a very delicious, decidedly discomposed picture.

"I am in love with you too," I said.

He blinked. "I think I need to sit down," he replied, his voice rough as sandpaper.

I burst out laughing, and his own mouth pulled up. "I deserved that," I said.

"And more, I'm sure," Oliver agreed. And then he bent to kiss me again. Softer, this time. His hands cradling my face.

"I have something for you," he said when we finally parted. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small black leather jewellery box.

"What is this?" I asked, taking it from him.

"Look and see," he said, nervous again.

I opened the box and gasped. Nestled inside, on a bed of black velvet was a ring. Its delicate gold band was made of two entwined vines, and they wrapped around a flower made of glittering yellow stones. "You … made this?" I managed. "You made this for me?"

He nodded, colour high on his cheeks. "I know in the language of flowers that marigolds mean grief, but I have to agree with your mother on this one. I think they are the loveliest thing in the world. To me, Marigold means only joy."

There was a lump in my throat, and my eyes glazed dangerously.

"Don't you dare," he murmured.

I blinked hard. "I don't know what you mean," I sniffled. Then I found myself being thoroughly, ruthlessly kissed once more.

"Oh," I said breathlessly. "That is certainly one way to make me stop crying."

"I shall have to remember that," Oliver said. "So that I never run out of handkerchiefs." He looked down at the ring box still in my hand. "Well, Bloom?" He quirked a brow. "Shall we stop pretending to be engaged and just get married?"

"What a romantic proposal."

He smiled then – the full, dazzling smile that made my head spin. "Marigold Bloom," he said, taking the box and pulling out the ring. Casting the box aside, he took my hand in his, slipping the ring on to my finger where it fitted exactly. "I don't really like anyone. But I love you. Will you marry me?"

"Perfect," I whispered, and then his mouth was on mine, and I didn't say anything else for several very interesting minutes.

"We have a lot to talk about," I said afterwards, as we sat side by side on the sofa.

"I know," Oliver said. "Your business, your family…"

I swallowed, nodded. "I have an idea that I would like to discuss with you." I cleared my throat, suddenly nervous. "Mrs Finch told me about your plans for Lockhart Hall."

"And do you approve?"

"Wholeheartedly. I thought about what you said about gardening being healing. I wondered if there was a way to make the garden an important part of this sanctuary: a place to heal, emotionally and physically."

"I like that." Oliver nodded. "I like that very much." His fingers twined with mine, his thumb brushing lightly across my knuckles.

"And about my family…" I hesitated. "We will have to find a solution."

"Together," Oliver said firmly. "We will make this work together. We can talk to your family and find an answer that suits everyone. I promise you that we will not leave them in the lurch; I promise you that the business you built will not suffer. I am not here to hold you back, Bloom. I am here to help you grow. We are going to be partners in this. Partners in life. That is what my mother and father never had, but I won't have anything less between us."

It was the best thing he could have said. "I would like that," I murmured, resting my head on his shoulder. I smiled. "You know, I think I can tell you the exact moment I fell in love with you."

"Oh?"

"Yes." I turned, peeped up at him through my lashes. "I believe it was the moment I first saw your horribly overgrown gardens."

And Oliver Lockhart threw his head back and laughed.